Martin leaned on the handle of his brush and puffed disconsolately. “Young fellas gets the cream,” he said. “They won’t let me drive it.”
“What?” Cal asked.
“Why, the new sweeper. Ain’t you heard? Where you been, boy?” It was incredible to him that any reasonably informed human did not know about the sweeper. He forgot Cal. Maybe the Bacigalupis would give him a job. They were coining money. Three wagons and a new truck.
Cal turned down Alisal Street, went into the post office, and looked in the glass window of box 632. It was empty. He wandered back home and found Lee up and stuffing a very large turkey.
“Up all night?” Lee asked.
“No. I just went for a walk.”
“Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t blame you. I would be too. It’s hard to give people things—I guess it’s harder to be given things, though. Seems silly, doesn’t it? Want some coffee?”
“I don’t mind.”
Lee wiped his hands and poured coffee for himself and for Cal. “How do you think Aron looks?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Did you get to talk to him?”
“No,” said Cal. It was easier that way. Lee would want to know what he said. It wasn’t Aron’s day. It was Cal’s day. He had carved this day out for himself and he wanted it. He meant to have it.
Aron came in, his eyes still misty with sleep. “What time do you plan to have dinner, Lee?”
“Oh, I don’t know—three-thirty or four.”
“Could you make it about five?”
“I guess so, if Adam says it’s all right. Why?”
“Well, Abra can’t get here before then. I’ve got a plan I want to put to my father and I want her to be here.”
“I guess that will be all right,” said Lee.
Cal got up quickly and went to his room. He sat at his desk with the student light turned on and he churned with uneasiness and resentment. Without effort, Aron was taking his day away from him. It would turn out to be Aron’s day. Then, suddenly, he was bitterly ashamed. He covered his eyes with his hands and he said, “It’s just jealousy. I’m jealous. That’s what I am. I’m jealous. I don’t want to be jealous.” And he repeated over and over, “Jealous—jealous—jealous,” as though bringing it into the open might destroy it. And having gone this far, he proceeded with his self-punishment. “Why am I giving the money to my father? Is it for his good? No. It’s for my good. Will Hamilton said it—I’m trying to buy him. There’s not one decent thing about it. There’s not one decent thing about me. I sit here wallowing in jealousy of my brother. Why not call things by their names?”
He whispered hoarsely to himself. “Why not be honest? I know why my father loves Aron. It’s because he looks like her. My father never got over her. He may not know it, but it’s true. I wonder if he does know it. That makes me jealous of her too. Why don’t I take my money and go away? They wouldn’t miss me. In a little while they’d forget I ever existed—all except Lee. And I wonder whether Lee likes me. Maybe not.” He doubled his fists against his forehead. “Does Aron have to fight himself like this? I don’t think so, but how do I know? I could ask him. He wouldn’t say.”
Cal’s mind careened in anger at himself and in pity for himself. And then a new voice came into it, saying coolly and with contempt, “If you’re being honest—why not say you are enjoying this beating you’re giving yourself? That would be the truth. Why not be just what you are and do just what you do?” Cal sat in shock from this thought. Enjoying?—of course. By whipping himself he protected himself against whipping by someone else. His mind tightened up. Give the money, but give it lightly. Don’t depend on anything. Don’t foresee anything. Just give it and forget it. And forget it now. Give—give. Give the day to Aron. Why not? He jumped up and hurried out to the kitchen.
Aron was holding open the skin of the turkey while Lee forced stuffing into the cavity. The oven cricked and snapped with growing heat.
Lee said, “Let’s see, eighteen pounds, twenty minutes to the pound—that’s eighteen times twenty—that’s three hundred and sixty minutes, six hours even—eleven to twelve, twelve to one—” He counted on his fingers.
Cal said, “When you get through, Aron, let’s take a walk.”
“Where to?” Aron asked.
“Just around town. I want to ask you something.”
Cal led his brother across the street to Berges and Garrisiere, who imported fine wines and liquors. Cal said, “I’ve got a little money, Aron. I thought you might like to buy some wine for dinner. I’ll give you the money.”
“What kind of wine?”
“Let’s make a real celebration. Let’s get champagne—it can be your present.”
Joe Garrisiere said, “You boys aren’t old enough.”
“For dinner? Sure we are.”
“Can’t sell it to you. I’m sorry.”
Cal said, “I know what you can do. We can pay for it and you can send it to our father.”
“That I can do,” Joe Garrisiere said. “We’ve got some Oeil de Perdrix—” His lips pursed as though he were tasting it.
“What’s that?” Cal asked.
“Champagne—but very pretty, same color as a partridge eye—pink but a little darker than pink, and dry too. Four-fifty a bottle.”
“Isn’t that high?” Aron asked.
“Sure it’s high!” Cal laughed. “Send three bottles over, Joe.” To Aron he said, “It’s your present.”
3
To Cal the day was endless. He wanted to leave the house and couldn’t. At eleven o’clock Adam went to the closed draft-board office to brood over the records of a new batch of boys coming up.
Aron seemed perfectly calm. He sat in the living room, looking at cartoons in old numbers of the Review of Reviews. From the kitchen the odor of the bursting juices of roasting turkey began to fill the house.
Cal went into his room and took out his present and laid it on his desk. He tried to write a card to put on it. “To my father from Caleb”—“To Adam Trask from Caleb Trask.” He tore the cards in tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet.
He thought, Why give it to him today? Maybe tomorrow I could go to him quietly and say, This is for you, and then walk away. That would be easier. “No,” he said aloud. “I want the others to see.” It had to be that way. But his lungs were compressed and the palms of his hands were wet with stage fright. And then he thought of the morning when his father got him out of jail. The warmth and closeness—they were the things to remember—and his father’s trust. Why, he had even said it. “I trust you.” He felt much better then.